The desire to create is innately human:
Nature is the biggest showoff. This cactus flower is the size of my fist and only blooms for one day. I pulled off the side of the road, trespassing, to get this shot — and it doesn’t do it justice.
Even a parched desert will struggle to create something beautiful.
Art begs to be noticed, let’s face it. We can draw those stick figure families or write those shitty poems. We can fill our middle school diaries with cringe-worthy angst and paint lemon-colored suns sliced in the high corners of an 8 ½ x 12 sheet of paper, assaulting white space with rainbows and butterflies, or dark daggers and angry eyes. We can pose in the coffee shops with a laptop and a latte, drizzling prose like the caramel on their frothy tops. And it could be brilliant. And it could be crap. And it could very well have saved us that day.
Because creating is inherent to us. Like living and breathing and carrying on in the most wretched of circumstances. And the days I want to quit writing are the days in which I only think I do because we always return — hours, days, weeks, or years later – and make our way back, like spindly branches hiding life under a dull bark, begging to be noticed. Even if it is by one person – known or unknown — feeling okay in that moment, purging ourselves a little bit at a time, until the earth is saturated enough to burst with blooms.
Because spring is inevitable. And we will always remain participants and witnesses.